Sweet Poison
by Snow Glows Blue
Summary: <html><head></head>Darkness is not always evil, but prejudice is. (Trigger warning: noncon in later chapters.)</html>
1. Nightshade

**Written for my English class. Don't own. **

Erestor was born in a small village in Southern Greece. He was a sweet, quiet child, and until he was seven he managed to conceal his ability to raise and speak with the spirits of the dead.

Though Erestor's talent was not inherently evil, the community feared the darkness that came with it, and ostracized him: his parents made sure he was never alone with his younger siblings, his best friend Glorfindel was forbidden from seeing him, one of the boys in his class took to throwing rocks at him from across the street.

It wasn't long before shades became Erestor's only friends, and he would have trusted them with his life. In turn, they protected him from the worst, and provided companionship when he needed it — until at twelve he accidentally raised the ghost of Lord Curufin of Sicily. Curufin wormed his way into Erestor's friendship, and under his guidance, Erestor began making sacrifices to Curufin's gods: it started innocuously enough, with scraps from his meals that were pocketed and placed on the fire, but soon he was hunting increasingly large animals to _please, please, make the voices stop, please Curufin make it stop I'll do anything you want me to—_

At fifteen Erestor killed the first human.

When the black haze cleared from his vision, it was Glorfindel's body he was standing over, a bloody knife held in his fist.

The other villagers threw him out. With nobody but Curufin and a host of tortured shades for even the barest of interactions, with the weight of what he had done weighing on his shoulders, Erestor's mind snapped within days.

He's wandered the wilderness ever since, torn between his hatred of the living world that rejected him and the guilt that has ripped him apart.

He is still loyal to Lord Curufin, the only true friend he feels he will ever have.


	2. Castor

All of the adults who watched their first interaction expected explosions. It made sense: thoughtful Erestor, loner by choice, was never likely to get along with Glorfindel, the gregarious leader. But the adults were wrong; the two were fast friends, and for the next three and a half years they were unseperable.

But when Glorfindel was eight, the shades came.

He doesn't remember why Erestor called them up, a small army of undead spirits crowded behind him, but he remembers exactly how angry his friend looked, remembers the look of grim determination on Erestor's face.

He remembers being terrified.

Glorfindel's father forbid him from talking to Erestor after that, but Glorfindel kept watching. He watched as Erestor stopped trying to convince the rest of their town that he wasn't dangerous, as Erestor grew thinner and thinner, as the bags under his dark eyes grew more pronounced, as he stopped trying to dodge the rocks that Haldir threw at him and stopped trying to hide the bruises.

He still didn't try to talk to Erestor; his friend didn't reach out to anyone, and seemed to regard most people with misanthropic distrust. He wouldn't be wanted.

"Fin?" He turned around to see Erestor, running up the trail behind him. "Please, Fin, I need to talk to you." Glorfindel stopped walking, letting Erestor catch up. "I need help," he said, voice shaking. "I—"

Dark brown eyes suddenly clouded over, and Erestor's tone changed from desperate to cold. "—won't let this one get away," he hissed, "I've put too much effort into him for that." He had a knife. Where had he been keeping that knife?

Glorfindel didn't have a chance to struggle, and he didn't try. Not-Erestor stood above him as he bled out, staining the ground red.

When he returned to awareness, he was about a half mile away from the village and the sky was dark. Glorfindel didn't know how long it had been since he'd died, but it had clearly been a while.

Erestor was six feet away from him, limbs stiff and shoulders forward. Next to him sat a tall, dark-haired man with angular features, speaking softly and holding Erestor's hand.

"Who are you?"

Both Erestor and the strange man turned to him. "Ah, Glorfindel." That voice was exactly the same as when Erestor's eyes had clouded. "It's a difficult adjustment, I know. How are you doing?"

Glorfindel didn't listen to him. "Erestor."

A slight shake and a whisper were the only response he got. "Don't deserve you. Why are you here?"

What? "Tor, I don't know what you're talking about."

He curled in on himself even further, like he was trying not to take up space — or, and Glorfindel's mind darted back to Haldir and his rocks, like he was making himself into the smallest possible target. "Don't derserve you. Left you, killed you. But you're here. Why?"

_How_ _often did I fail you, that you think it was your fault? How often did we all fail you?_

"Because I won't give up on you."

Curufin's eyes glittered, though his expression did not change.

_If you want him, you'll have to fight for him._

_I won't fail him again._


	3. Oleander

From childhood, Curufin knew he was born to rule.

It didn't matter that he wasn't first in line to his grandfather's throne, or even second, but sixth. The realm would be his, one day.

That took time, but he made it happen.

Finwë and Fëanor died of their own accord, a pair of fortuitous accidents within weeks of each other; Curufin may not have been the cause of those, but he was not displeased by them. Then Maedhros in his grief stepped down from the throne (and nobody questioned the way that Curufin visited his oldest brother, offering comfort and words of advice; Curufin had been closest to their father, after all, and surely he needed the love and support of his brothers).

Maglor was next, but Maglor was easy. It only took one night, to give him what he needed and bind them together, and he didn't dare tell anyone, even his precious Maedhros, of the threats Curufin whispered in the dead of night across Maglor's pillow — he couldn't, because that would mean telling all the rest of what had happened before then. And that would be far too great a shame to bear.

There were a few raised eyebrows when Maglor too gave up the Sicilian throne, but nobody asked what they all wondered.

Celegorm had always been Curufin's favorite. It was a shame, but the stubborn oaf wouldn't be convinced.

Curufin wished he didn't need to stage the accident, but he didn't shy away from what was necessary. (He spent so much time hunting, it was bound to happen sometime, but did you hear how the dog turned on him? It must have been rabid, he treated his animals so well, the poor boy.)

Curufin had no regrets about Caranthir. His paranoia would have served him well: except that he aimed it at the wrong target, and in his belief that the sons of Finarfin had killed his family he murdered Finrod, killing poor Amrod in the crossfire.

After that, nobody in their right mind would allow Caranthir to rule. And while Curufin, as king, had more than enough cause to execute him, he merely banished him instead. Lord Curufin was merciful, after all, and he loved his family more than anything — it pained him, of course, to send Caranthir away, so soon after the deaths of Celegorm and Amrod, but what else could he have done?

Curufin was born to rule. This he knew.

He took a wife, a political marriage to a girl from the Ottoman, and though they married for an alliance rather than for love, their son Celebrimbor was everything he could have asked for and more. Maglor, true to form, stayed quiet and compliant, and never said no, never showed any hint of defiance.

Until, when Celebrimbor was twelve, Maglor waited in bed for him with a blade.

"Every night for the last twelve years," Maglor whispered as the knife drew delicate red lines on Curufin's throat, "I've waited to do this. Dreamed of this, thought about this," and he twirls the blade, drawing it in a spiral across Curufin's collarbone. "In bed with you, brother, I leaned back and let you do what you wanted, but in my heart I waited to kill you." He smiled, just as prettily as always. "Revenge is best served cold, no?"

The knife pressed deeper this time, and Curufin choked for air for few moments, before succumbing to the black that spread across his vision.

Maglor was executed by Amras the next day. He maintained that his revenge was worth it.


	4. Aconite

Erestor, the boy's name was, and he looked like a dark-eyed Maglor. He was young and alone and scared, and he could be easy to master, Curufin knew — but he had nothing to work towards now, and where was the fun in easy prey?

/

He may have had Maglor's features, but Erestor was not Maglor.

"Why do you let him do that?"

Erestor's arms and torso were mottled with bruises, splotches of purple and yellow-green on creamy pale skin. "What do you mean?" he asked, but he clearly knew.

"Haldir. The rocks. Your bruises." He reached out and brushed a particularly dark splotch on Erestor's shoulder. "Why do you let him?"

Erestor didn't speak for a moment. "Because he's twice my size" he said carefully, "and nobody trusts me anyway, so I don't want to make that worse."

Curufin opened his mouth to speak, but Erestor cut him off— "That is not up for debate, Curvo. I will not ostracize myself further."

_Definitely a challenge._ Curufin smiled.

/

Curufin wore him down, though, slowly but surely.

When Erestor tried, and inevitably failed, to start conversations — Curufin was there to talk to. When Erestor woke up terrified in the middle of the night — Curufin was there to stroke his hair and whisper comforting nonsense until the shaking stopped and he could fall back asleep. When Erestor couldn't stop himself from drawing the edge of a blade across his skin — Curufin was there to wrap a bandage around the wound and hold the boy who looked so much like his brother until Erestor had no more tears and no energy to do anything but lean limp against Curufin's chest, head against his heartbeat.

(He'd never intended to start caring.)

(But at least Erestor cared as well.)

/

Erestor started burning bits of bread and meat, small sacrifices to Curufin's gods. He hadn't caused this consciously, but he could certainly work with it.

Within a couple of months, Curufin had convinced Erestor to… broaden his horizons.

Erestor cried the first time, but not the second. And nobody seemed to notice or care how rapidly the squirrels disappeared.

/

"Please, Fin, I need to talk to you!"

Glorfindel paused, turning around. Curufin had never really gotten a good look at him before, but he looked nearly as much like Finrod as Erestor did like Maglor.

He wasn't expecting the pain that came with that thought, but it was easy to suppress even so.

"I—"

Erestor wasn't going to do it.

So Curufin had to.

"Won't let this one get away," he hissed, sliding neatly into control of Erestor's body. He pulled the knife from his sleeve, and the look on Glorfindel's face shifted from worry into blank terror—

Glorfindel wasn't fast enough.

/

Erestor seemed shocked.

No, not shocked. He was… guilty? Why? He'd agreed, hadn't he?

Curufin stayed with Erestor. His presence didn't seem to help any, but he did.

/

Apparently Erestor could call up shades even when he wasn't trying.

"Hello, Glorfindel. It's a difficult transition, I know, but how are you doing?" It never hurt to extend the olive branch, after all.

Glorfindel ignored him, preferring to try to speak with Erestor.

Rude.

/

_If you want him, Nightshade, you'll have to fight for him. I won't fail him again_.

Glorfindel's voice rang clearly in Curufin's mind.

Oh, this would be fun.


End file.
